And A Jigger Of Tetanus

In Saturday's Wall Street Journal, Eric Felten wrote on a cocktail with selective appeal (sub req):

The Rusty Nail was a favorite of swingers -- that last gasp of finger-poppin' decadence before hippies displaced hipsters. The drink has never fully escaped that dubious association in America.

And yet, the cocktail doesn't have nearly the same connotations in Britain, where the Rusty Nail survived well past the '60s, maintaining a currency in the green-wellie and Range Rover set. In 1981, the folks who publish 'Debrett's Peerage' -- essential reading for those who care to know who will succeed Lord Thingummy -- put out a guide to U and non-U behavior, 'Debrett's Etiquette and Modern Manners.'

Along with advice on how to avoid embarrassment at palace get-togethers was guidance on proper comportment when blasting grouse. The first rule is to 'decline the invitation' to go out shooting if one doesn't know how to handle a gun. Very sound indeed. Less sound was the notion that one should combine cocktails with the gunplay. Debrett's said that the proper rig for shooting includes a hip flask filled with 'aiming juices.' And on what does a shooter get aiming-juiced? 'A concoction known as 'Rusty Nail' (Scotch and Drambuie in equal quantities).'

I've never been much of a Drambuie man and don't believe that I've ever had the pleasure of enjoying a Rusty Nail. Why would you ever want to add anything other than water to Scotch? My main association with the cocktail is from my wedding reception.

As the best man, JB Doubtless was required to deliver a toast at said affair. He consulted with Saint Paul (who eventually ended up bartending the event) to add some humor to his address and their collaboration resulted in a joke that revolved around a Rusty Nail. I don't recall the specifics of it, but I do remember the reaction. Most of the crowd looked as if they had personally just stepped on a rusty nail. Yes, it was that painful.

Felten goes on to talk about how some Scotch makers are trying to broaden their appeal with kindler, gentler offering and also passes on some sad news:

As you might guess from the names of these offerings, the new whisky liqueurs have a target audience, and it isn't men. There are marketers of Scotch who think that women can be wooed away from vodka-based candy-tinis only by being given Wonka-fied whisky. With its Amber liqueur, Macallan is trying to win over distaff custom not only with sweetness but with female-friendly packaging. The undulate bottle is more appropriate to the shelves of Sephora than any liquor store.

Michael Jackson, the great whisky and beer scribbler who died last month, was not a fan of the Amber concept. "Madness," he called it. "It is like putting go-faster stripes down the side of a Rolls-Royce." But let's say this much about Amber: It is very good -- a very good maple syrup and pecan liqueur. My wife -- whose tolerance for Scotch is tentative, but whose taste for maple syrup was honed when her family moved to Vermont -- gives it her enthusiastic endorsement. But where's the whisky? Whatever Macallan single malt might be in the mix is utterly drowned.

Talk about madness. What kind of world is it when this Michael Jackson dies while the other flourishes? R.I.P.